


Wallowing

by Queue



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queue/pseuds/Queue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for stop_drop_porn.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Wallowing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for stop_drop_porn.

Oh, man. If Fraser could see me now.

See, the guy is all the time on my case for what he calls "wallowing." Right, yeah, I know—sounds like something whales do, walruses, some random rare animal which only Fraser knows enough about to describe. But no, I looked it up, and there's more to it than that; there's more good things going on in the wallowing world than are dreamt of in Fraser's philosophy, that's for damn sure.

(And don't even start with me about the Shakespeare, okay? I got stuck with Tennessee fucking Williams from birth, pretty much; I had to do _something_ to get that sad-assed closeted crap out of my head. Besides, I got something to say here, and it's hard enough to concentrate as it is, being as how, like any other normal guy once he's come his brains out a couple of times, I'm about thirty seconds from passing out. Just can it and listen already.)

Anyway. Wallowing.

 

 _1\. to roll oneself about in a lazy, relaxed, or ungainly manner_

Fraser's big objection on the wallowing front has to do with sleep. Specifically, mine. More specifically, my habit of wanting to stay in bed at times of day when Fraser, having had his RCMP-standard eight hours, is up and raring to go. Like, say, six a.m.—earlier if we're really lucky and Fraser knocked off the night before while it was still _light_ outside. "Time's a-wasting, Ray," Fraser will say through the bedroom door, while I'm fumbling around for my glasses and wondering what died in my mouth last night and why Fraser still talks like an elderly Canadian librarian after so many years in Chicago, "and you seem determined to wallow away the best part of the day."

Now. One of the many things I like about Vecchio—part of the matching set to the things about Vecchio that drive me mumbletyfuck and occasionally make me want to shove him through plate glass—is that Vecchio feels the same way I do about mornings. Mornings—especially weekend mornings—are not for rising with the birds, such as they are in Chicago, which is to say not a lot outside of the zoo and the pigeons. Mornings are not for doing ten-mile runs or staining new bookshelves or—God forbid— _shopping_ for _anything_ (and that includes power tools and Cragar hubs).

Mornings—weekend mornings, anyway—are for two things: sleep and sex.

Preferably both. Preferably more than once.

And Vecchio, man—Vecchio _gets_ that, gets it like no one else I've ever woken up with. (Although Stella was surprisingly into it, which may explain some of where Vecchio gets his enthusiasm—but let's not go there right now, thank you kindly.)

Sometimes Vecchio even goes it one better— _much_ better—and gives me a little of both.

Take this morning, just for example. On your ordinary morning, I wake up slow and painful, making noise before I'm even really sure where the fuck I am or what's going on, mumbling my way up out of what never feels like quite enough sleep, pretty much falling out of bed on my way to the john, and not much that's pleasant crosses my path until I get a little coffee inside me.

And then there's mornings like this one, where I wake up slow and the _opposite_ of painful, rock fucking hard in a way that's got nothing to do with needing to piss and everything to do with the fact that what's inside me right _now_ is two—already, two—of Vecchio's obscenely talented fingers, twisting and scissoring, working me open, sweet and slow, from the inside on out. Vecchio's breath is hot on my neck and his cock is wet all along the crack of my ass—he's been doing this for a while, apparently—and as I open my mouth to say ... something, he slides a third finger into me and I lose all the breath I woke up with on a long, low groan.

"Like that, Kowalski?" Vecchio says into the ear he's licking under and around.

 _Christ_ , what a question. "Yeah, yeah, it's good, it's—ah!—fine, whatever." A little pre-caffeine a.m. attitude, but my body's telling a different story: I'm pushing down on his fingers—harder, God, harder—and he's shoving them up to meet me and I can't catch my breath and I really don't care.

"What, not enough for you? You want something else? Want to beg me for more, beg me to take your ass, maybe?" His voice isn't in any better shape than mine, part morning-deep and part wanting to fuck me through the floorboards. Works for me—but I don't want to make this too easy on him, even if it _is_ easy, even if _I'm_ easy when it comes to Vecchio in my bed and up my ass. Making Vecchio work for it—even on good mornings, when he's almost on top of me and I'm this close to losing it—is part of what makes us work.

"Fuck you, Vecchio, you're not doing me any favors here, you like it as much as I do. You want to _give_ me something more, that's your lookout." I'm still impaling myself on his fingers, faster now and even harder, and I've got my hands on my own nipples, pinching them just enough to where my ass spasms around his knuckles. I figure he'll get the message, and he does: letting go of the breath he'd taken to argue with me (the man likes to argue almost as much as he likes to come), he slides his fingers out and his cock _aaaallllll_ the way in in pretty much one move.

 

 _2\. to surge_

I come the second he's inside me, all over my chest and my belly and the sheets in front of me, without either of us ever touching my cock.

 

 _3\. to devote oneself entirely,_ especially _: to take unrestrained pleasure; delight_

God. God. If there's a better way to wake up than this, jacked right straight up to coming before I'm even all the way awake and then coming down into a body stretched tight and full around Vecchio's hot, thick cock ... well, I don't know what it is, but whatever it is, it's probably illegal.

The best part—and I'm gonna sound nuts when I say this, risk losing my membership in the Normal Guy Club or whatever, but—the best part is actually _after_ I come. I mean, don't get me wrong, I got no problem whatsoever with what Fraser calls "orgasms, Ray," smiling at me with that flush of red across the top of his cheekbones that he gets when we're talking about something he doesn't want to admit to doing. (Vecchio always pokes at Fraser when Fraser gets all clinical and big-wordy like that. "Say 'penis,' Benny. C'mon, say it," with this smile on his face that's half asshole and half love.) It's just that ... well, fuck, okay, I'll spit it out already:

I _love_ getting fucked.

Get off on it like nobody's business. Want it all the time, 24/7. Would happily bend over in the bullpen for Vecchio if it wouldn't get us both booted off the force, at a minimum. (And don't think we haven't gotten really fucking close to having sex on somebody's desk, late at night when it's a skeleton staff around there. Thank God the supply closet's got sturdy shelves and a shiny new hook and eye on the _inside_ , for whatever scary reason.)

Taking it up the ass trips my trigger faster than anything else ever has. It makes me come like I'm losing my mind and then—and this is key—keeps me there, _holds_ me right in this incredible place where every single move Vecchio makes feels good _everywhere_ , all over my body. Ass and cock, yeah—most times I'll get hard again, and even when I don't it feels fucking _great_ —but everywhere else he's touching me and then some, too.

Which is why times like this morning rank right up there on my list of Good Ways to Wallow. I'm all relaxed, spunked out, tingling and twitching and uncoordinated with pleasure but awake enough to _notice_ everything instead of rushing like a fucking freight train towards the big O. Vecchio's _waaaay_ up my ass, long tense hands curled over my shoulders to anchor his thrusts (and—no coincidence—the little fingers on both hands just _barely_ brushing my nipples as he moves), rocking back and forth so shallowly that he's not so much withdrawing on the outstroke as he is pushing impossibly deeper coming in. He's humming against the back of my neck—something with an actual melody, which shouldn't be possible when he's been this turned on for this long, but music's rooted almost as deep in Vecchio as sex and food. Which I love, because those are pretty much my top three good things in life as well. In addition to which, I can always tell when he's about to come because the balance shifts completely to sex, the hum breaking off into good low grunts and the slow, even rhythm disintegrating into short, sharp snaps of his hips as he shoves himself into me, again and again and _again_ , until he freezes and groans and comes _hard_ , shaking and sweating, inside of me as far as he can go.

It's the best thing ever, _ever_.

 

 _4\. to become abundantly supplied; luxuriate; to indulge oneself immoderately_

And see, here's what I love about Vecchio—one of the things, one of the matched set, yeah, yeah—is that this does not get old for him. Which, okay, I can see where that might be your basic blue-ribbon statement of the obvious, given that most guys tend to feel pretty favorably towards sex in general. But that's the thing, right, is that this _isn't_ sex in general, it's sex with _me_. And at my age, with my skinny ass and my Clairol hair and the fact that I'm pretty fucking happy replacing my boots every ten years when the steel toes wear through the leather and buying my t-shirts in bulk . . . well, I am not what you would call a high-class prize. Not that Vecchio's going to win any beauty pageants any time soon, I grant you, unless it's maybe the Chicago's Best Schnozz Award. And not that I couldn't get it elsewhere if I wanted it: provided I look in the right places, there's _always_ gonna be someone looking back. But between the smelling-good thing and the bitchy bedroom eyes and the fact that he is all _over_ looking smooth and elegant even with a gun in his hand, he's got my ass beaten into the ground on the suave, city-guy sexy front, and we know more than one woman who'd take the first chance he offered to prove it.

But he doesn't offer any more. He comes home with me, more times than not, and he snarks at my music and steps on my toes (the man cannot dance, which how this is possible is not clear to me, but I swear it's true) and makes me do all the fucking dishes. And he sets the timer for the coffeepot every single goddamn night he's there so that I can pretend to be human in the morning, and fucks me stupid without my ever having to ask for it (beg, sometimes, but that's a different story) and without ever making me wonder if it's worth it for him (the groans and the coming and the bruises on my thighs and shoulders afterwards are kind of giveaways on that front). And every chance he gets, he wallows with me.

 

 _5\. to become or remain helpless_

Given all of this, it's maybe not too surprising that when Fraser rides me about "wallowing, Ray," I'm at the point now where I just cannot stop myself from grinning at him. Grinning with maybe a little edge, remembering a lot of good mornings and a lot of sweet spots, and getting _just_ hard enough that my jeans tighten up over my cock at the thought of the difference between what Fraser means by that and what I do.

I wonder whether he'd like to wallow with us some time.


End file.
